Programming Errors

Scars

A/N:  In the universe in which this story takes place, when somebody tells a lie they get a scar. It doesn't hurt, but it happens. The more the lie matters and the more times the lie is told, the larger the scar. This is just some knowledge you need to understand the story. Happy (or not) reading! ~Khali

I stop at the crosswalk, glancing momentarily at the numerous scars crisscrossing my forearm while waiting for the light to change.

"So many lies..." A voice, low and rich, comes from the only other person waiting. A habitual glance at his fully exposed arms yields surprising results. None on the arms? Weird...

"What's your point? Don't lie and tell me you don't have any. I can see one peeking out from your shirt. It's sticking out from your collar." I shoot him a venomous glance before returning my focus to the light. Still red... This thing is never this slow!

"I don't recall saying anything about my own. All I did was notice yours. I do have a couple. Most of them are from when I was a kid, though." The light turns green, and we cross the road.

"Of course they are. That's what everybody says."

"Why do you say that?" He looks at me, mild confusion swimming in dark grey, nearly black, eyes.

"Nobody wants to admit how much they lie, so their answers to questions about their scars usually involve childhood lies."

"Well, in my case, it's true. The only large one I have is actually from my adult life, though." Indignant, he pulls out his phone and starts swiping through his photos. "It gets bigger every day. It used to be hidden by a tank top, but now you can see it even when I'm wearing a regular shirt." He turns his phone around to show me a picture of his bare back. "This is from a few weeks ago."

I take in a sharp breath. His back is pale, unlike his face, which is tan from exposure to the sun, and it seems to almost ripple with muscle, despite the image being frozen in time. These thins fall short to the thing that first catches my eye.

A jagged scar slices across his back, a pink so pale that it's nearly white. It stretches from a few inches above his right hip to above his shoulder blades. It looks about as wide as my hand at the largest and narrows to a sharp point. Half a dozen or so other scars litter his back, but they are nothing in comparison to the expansive focal point of the picture.

"What is your lie?" My voice is hoarse with shock. "How bad is it?"

"We've all said it. Many, many times. It's just more..." He pauses and he seems to search for the right word. "It's more impactful for me." 

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

"You don't even know my name."

"Ari. Yours?"

"Cym."

"Nice to meet you, Cym. Now I know your name. Will you tell me?" 

He sighs but seems to relent.

"I'm fine."

"Okay, good for you, but what's the lie?" I start to grow more impatient.

"That is my lie. I'm fine."